Cyber Shogun Revolution

by Peter Tieryas

  “If Metzger is there, the army will get him. If he’s not, you’ll have wasted your time.”

  “I really think this is—”

  But the communication ended.

  “Your masters won’t let you go?” Reiko teased him.

  “Another mission came up. I’ve got to investigate,” he lied.

  Reiko smiled. “So even Tokko have tight leashes.”

  “Are you enjoying this?”

  “I actually am. Tokko usually lord it over everyone.”

  “I’m still considered a rookie.” He looked at the cargo. “You going to be okay by yourself?”

  “Who said I’m going by myself?”

  They returned to her Katamari mecha. “It was good to see you again, even if it was only a short time,” Reiko told him as she began climbing up the ladder.

  “You too.”

  “After this blows over, let’s grab a drink. If you’re allowed, that is.”

  “I’m allowed,” Bishop said.

  After her mecha blasted away, he found himself troubled by something. He couldn’t quite place it, but something about S9 bothered him. He placed a flag on S9’s portical to monitor his communications, even with his portical off, and notify Bishop if he mentioned Dr. Metzger and 210 flagged terms. He then called the special military transit shuttle and headed back for Tokko’s Dallas base with two of the chips.

  II.

  The base was in a nondescript hangar next to an abandoned airfield. There was almost nothing to indicate its position as the center of the Japanese secret police in Dallas Tokai. Underneath the airfield, the structure descended almost forty floors. The front door was the principal entrance, though there were five additional entrances that agents could use in a pinch. These were scattered throughout Dallas Tokai in underground tunnels that used the old sewer system.

  Bishop entered the tinted doors that were adjacent to the main hangar. The lobby had a massive garden with indoor rivers and bridges which fronted as an imperial shrine in case of unexpected visitors. There were guns hidden next to the grafted plants and a variety of traps that could hold off enemies in case of an attack. It was rumored that the base even had defenses against aerial bombardment with a plasma field, similar to the liquid screenings he had to undergo after every field operation. The four receptionists ignored him, meaning they recognized him. The only time they’d spoken to him was the first time he’d arrived, and that was only to get a fresh fingerprint and retinal scan.

  He walked into one of the four elevators and down a floor to the security gate. Unlike the garden above, the bare walls of the access hall were more reflective of Tokko’s secretive nature. There was the standard entry for agents through security checks, and then the special entry for those returning from a field operation. He placed the mecha chips inside a separate container for evidence that was briskly taken away. He had to strip naked, fold up all his clothes, and put them through the screener. He himself walked through a curtain of blue liquid that was gelatinous. It checked for foreign organics in his body, detecting chemicals an X-ray or thermal scan could never spot. Once he went through, a heater evaporated the gel as though it had never been there. Since no alarm ensued, he had passed the screening. He dressed himself.

  The internals of Tokko HQ were made up of thousands of corridors linking in a serpentine intestine. Agents had access only to what was necessary. Aside from the main cafeteria and training facilities, where all communications were monitored, it was possible to wander the base for hours without bumping into anyone. Everyone was holed away, investigating on their porticals (the internal systems were locked off from the public kikkai network) and collating data from the censors. Lights were tied to motion sensors so that many of the halls were dark until someone triggered the electricity. Unlike the army bases he’d served in, there were no trophies or past awards on display, no indications of what actually took place here. Plain corridors led into more corridors with offices and the occasional debriefing room that could hold groups of agents. Rarely were many assembled at the same time to limit contact. Office assignments were changed regularly, and there were many off-site locations scattered throughout the city, the majority of which only a few knew about.

  He stopped by his own office first. It was two floors down in a small room unadorned like every other room. Bishop appreciated it because it gave him privacy, unlike his space in the army, which was an open floor where everyone could watch each other. His glass desk had three porticals on it. His entrance turned on the projectors, which created a visual map flashing in a circle. There were requests for paperwork from fifteen departments, and he knew more would be flooding in once his initial report about the mecha components made the rounds.

  He headed to the cafeteria, which had its own staff of twenty-three. None of the cooking staff left the facility without authorization, and all the food was made on the grounds. To maintain the health of the Tokko, they used the freshest products and everything was organic, with little to no chemical supplements. Agents regularly underwent blood checks. In cases of health deficiencies, they were cooked special meals to compensate.

  The café could serve several hundred people and was one of the starkest contrasts with the army. There, they served you processed chemicals that masqueraded as food. At Tokko, agents were too valuable to be fed dreck. The tables were spread Western style rather than Japanese, though there were private rooms that had shoji screen doors (with sonic-proof fittings of course). He ordered a spinach salad, no cheese or dressing, with tomatoes and celery on top. He ate quickly, but kept on wondering what bugged him so much about S9.

  He met his boss at her office, which was even more bare bones than his. It was a year ago when he’d first met Akiko. His chief on the force had thrown him in the brig, as he’d gone after some Yakuza members despite their protected status with the police. When Akiko came to see him and showed her badge, he believed she was here for his head. When she mentioned recruiting him, he thought she was taunting him.

  “You did apply to become a member, didn’t you?” Akiko had confirmed.

  “I did. But I wasn’t expecting for it to be taken seriously.”

  “Why not?”

  “Just in case you weren’t aware, my father was executed for treason,” Bishop explained. “He committed seppuku after a Kempei agent made a false accusation against him.”

  Agent Tsukino was unfazed. “I’m aware. I fought behind the scenes to overturn the false conviction.”

  It was a reply Bishop did not expect as he asked, “You did?”

  “I served with your father. He was a mentor to me, so it was the least I could do.”

  Bishop was surprised, not just that they knew each other but that she would acknowledge it.

  “He was exonerated of all wrongdoing,” she pointed out.

  “Outwardly,” Bishop said. “But a lot of people still hold it against me.”

  “Much of that had to do with the fact that you fought so many of the ones who questioned you,” Akiko pointed out.

  “What would you do if someone called your father a traitor when he wasn’t?”

  “You think beating them will solve the problem?”

  “No,” Bishop replied. “But it makes me feel better.”

  “He was one of the most ethical officers I ever served with.”

  “I think that’s the first kind thing anyone has ever said about him to me outside of my mother.”

  “He was grievously wronged,” she said. “I would never hold that against you. But if you weren’t expecting to get in, why did you bother to apply?”

  “Because I hoped it would somehow help me find the agent who got my father killed.”

  “I see,” Akiko replied.

  “Do you know the officer who made the false accusation?” Bishop asked.

  “I do,” Akiko had replied.

  �
�Is she still alive?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I’ve tried for over ten years to find out who it was, but I’ve never been able to.”

  “If she were alive, what would you do?” Akiko inquired.

  “What do you think? I’d make sure my father got justice.”

  “If I gave you that information, what would you pay for it?”

  “Whatever the price.”

  Akiko motioned the guard to release him. “Let’s go meet her. I want to see what ‘justice’ means to you.”

  “Agent Wakana, are you there?” Akiko asked in the present, sitting behind her desk.

  “Something about the shipment feels wrong,” Bishop said.

  “Can you be more specific?”

  Bishop thought about it. “The timing is too convenient. And the way the cargo was being smuggled was sloppy.”

  “Have you considered the possibility it is a decoy intended to distract us from the real cargo?”

  “You think it’s a fake?”

  “That’s what I’m relying on you to tell me,” she replied. “The initial report on the mecha chips you retrieved indicate they are old parts, intended to look more sophisticated than they are.”

  “Do they function?”

  “Not on contemporary mechas.”

  Bishop said, “We need to tell Reiko in case there’s a trap on the other side.”

  “The army can handle themselves. Our job is to track the real shipment.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “You should be telling me,” Akiko said. “Do you have any suggestions on where we might look next?”

  Bishop told her about his track on S9.

  “Airport personnel should also be closely watched,” Akiko said.

  “I’ve already been tracking their past and current communications,” Bishop replied. “Back when I was on the police force, the Yakuza bought off a lot of the officials to help them traffic contraband. There might be something worthwhile I can find out from my old contacts.”

  “Report back to me if you learn anything,” Akiko stated.

  Bishop bowed and left.

  * * *

  —

  He had chosen to stay in the Tokko dormitories, but he had a hard time sleeping in the room. There was the smell of new carpet he couldn’t get out of his nose. He got off his bed, did a hundred restless push-ups, took a hot shower, and lay back down. Exhaustion eventually overwhelmed anxiety, and he was able to sleep for six hours. He didn’t remember his dreams.

  In the morning, he watched his daily morning message from the Tokko that played automatically when he picked up his portical. It showed a series of graphic images of all those murdered the day before by enemies of the Empire, a reminder of how important their work was. There were only eight deaths yesterday, seven at the hands of the Nazis. As in all official Tokko messages, it ended with the symbol and their official motto, “Hand and Eye of the Police.”

  After Bishop brushed his teeth, he made an appointment with one of his top Yakuza contacts and headed out.

  * * *

  —

  There were three major black markets in the eastern part of Dallas Tokai. Two were held inside defunct shopping malls. The third, and biggest, was inside the remains of an old American super-church that had been partially converted into the market called the Shichitaka.

  The church in its heyday had multiple worship halls, hundreds of classrooms, four reflection centers, dormitories for proselytes, and open spaces that could be used for various religious festivals. It even had an underground facility for the hard-core, members who gave up contact with the outside world to surrender their lives in service of the pastor. All had been replaced by illegal vendors, some from the old Americas, many carrying contraband from the German Americas. There was a whole section devoted to Nazi junk food, from sausage-flavored marshmallows to fried-bear pizza chips. There was an illegal skin rejuvenation center that promised fresh-looking skin using military-grade lasers for patients with radiation damage, even though the treatments usually ended up doing more harm than good. An obnoxious loudmouth was asking people passing by, “Want to lose weight? Buy our robot parasites and you can hit your target weight in less than a month.”

  Whenever Bishop needed information about stolen goods, particularly items Nazis sought, he knew the Shichitaka was the best place to find it. The city police turned a blind eye to the illegal transactions thanks to copious bribes from the Yakuza, who ruled the place.

  To blend in, he was dressed as a member of the Church of Narelle Z, the cultic mecha group who believed mechas were the embodiment of gods on Earth. The members wore silver robes and were known to be fanatically loyal. They also had a sizable branch inside the Shichitaka. His contact, Ichika, met him with the same silver robes on, and they sat in the pews. He handed her a portical with an anonymous credit account filled with yen, as was their usual arrangement.

  Her rap sheet showed up on his portical view. Two arrests for assault, eight for beating up Yakuza members. There was also petty theft, burglary, extortion, and several scrolling lists that continued on until he switched them off.

  “Been a while, Mr. Wakana,” she said. “What brings you back to church?”

  “Business.”

  “Thought you weren’t a police officer no more.”

  “I’m a different kind of police now. How’s business going for you?” Bishop asked, staring at the head of the big Sentry-class mecha on the front altar.

  “Good. Some lady in East Texarkana wanted bondage baseball cards, so I took a whole set of the Minci edition over, and she paid very well.”

  Their normal exchange would go on for a bit as they talked about the lay of the land, but time was short and he wanted to get straight to the point. “Are any mecha parts being shipped over here from the Nazis?”

  Her eyes narrowed and Bishop could see her become extra alert. “Usually, it’s mecha parts being shipped from here to the German Americas,” she said.

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  She brought her face closer to him. “I don’t generally keep track of the cargo. Better for business if I don’t. But two days ago, I saw some gigantic crates coming through Nakajima Airport.”

  “Do you know who’s delivering it?”

  “Beyond my pay grade, dude.”

  Bishop handed her another portical. Ichika was going to refuse it until Bishop signaled she take a look. She turned the portical on and whistled. “That’s mighty generous. What kind of police are you now?”

  “The kind that likes answers to their questions.”

  “It was the Yamamori clan that was handling it on this side.”

  Internally, he flinched at the mention of the Yamamori, but outwardly, he showed no expression.

  “They’re still pissed about what happened,” Ichika reminded him.

  “I know. You take care of yourself.”

  “Always do, Mr. Wakana. A few more payments like these, and I’ll finally be able to leave this life behind.”

  Bishop did not reply. He was already heading to confront the Yamamori.

  * * *

  —

  Twenty years ago, one of the streets in Dallas Tokai had been rebuilt from the ground up to mimic parts of the Gion District from Kyoto. It was a haven for tourists and Yakuza alike. The touristy “maikos,” or geishas in training, walked down the streets, thronged by excited travelers who snapped pictures on their porticals. But they were mainly for show, since all vestiges of geishas had long ago disappeared on this side of the Pacific Ocean. The modern-day geishas worked hostess clubs in much ritzier areas in the city, and their dances were much more exploitative. They also came in both genders. Most people never paid attention to the shadows. Bishop noticed the drug-addicted “dancers” shivering in the alleyways over their chemical co
ndition and the “scouts” on the prowl for easy victims to set up for money scams.

  The gyoza bar the Yamamori owned was his target. Even from outside, it smelled of pork, chives, and vinegar. As soon as he entered, the identity of the twenty-three patrons were recorded on his portical and collated against Tokko’s list of suspected collaborators. The limited space was crowded, locals dropping off for a late-evening beer. They chose from one of twenty gyoza dishes they could order that included ginger, enokidake mushrooms, and green perilla. There was a familiarity between the patrons and two cooks, one of whom was an elderly woman with a bawdy mouth named Masako. Gyozas could be ordered fried, boiled, steamed, and even microwaved.

  His target was a lieutenant of the Yamamori clan, Goro. Goro had shaved most of his head and had a red horn of hair he must have used an ungodly amount of gel on to keep upright. He wore a tank top and had animal tattoos all over his arm. He was helping Masako boil gyozas.

  “I’m sorry, Officer,” Masako said, her face turning cold at his entry. “We don’t have any open spaces for the evening.”

  “I just need to speak with Goro.”

  “Goro is quite busy with hi—”

  Bishop ignored her and approached Goro. Goro immediately grabbed a meat knife and held it up in a menacing manner.

  “I should kill you for what you did to Eda!”

  Bishop knew the Yamamori clan would never forgive him for the beating he inflicted on their leader’s son. “Put the knife down so we can talk like—”

  Goro didn’t listen and instead tried to attack him. Bishop seized Goro’s left hand, then thrust it into the boiling oil in the deep fryer. Goro let out a scream, his entire arm sizzling. He struggled to break free, but Bishop overpowered him.

  “I need to ask you some questions,” Bishop said.

  The customers were too shocked to protest, staring at them aghast.

  Bishop lifted up his badge and said, “Tokko business. Get back to eating.”

  Goro was still howling when Bishop took his arm out from the oil. Much of his skin had melted, and it was a soggy mess that smelled of fried shrimp and burned flesh.